told their names. I know there's a boy--the
eldest, I think--who is quite a singer, and there's
a girl who paints, I believe; but I don't seem to
remember a `Mary Jane.' ''

``Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak
for herself,'' suggested Billy, dropping her chin
into the small pink cup of her hand, and settling
herself to listen.

``Very well,'' sighed Aunt Hannah; and she
opened the letter and began to read.


``DEAR AUNT HANNAH:--This is to tell you
that I'm coming to Boston to study singing in
the school for Grand Opera, and I'm planning to
look you up. Do you object? I said to a friend
the other day that I'd half a mind to write to Aunt
Hannah and beg a home with her; and my friend
retorted: `Why don't you, Mary Jane?' But
that, of course, I should not think of doing.

``But I know I shall be lonesome, Aunt Hannah,
and I hope you'll let me see you once in a
while, anyway. I plan now to come next week
--I've already got as far as New York, as you see
by the address--and I shall hope to see you
soon.